


sunflowers and orchids

by gsparkle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Florist, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, M/M, Steve Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/pseuds/gsparkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you looked out the window at all today?” Steve teased as he drew level with Clint at his workstation. Clint shook his head. He’d been in early, working since 8 am on a special order, even though they didn't technically open until 10. He washed his hands as Steve bossily continued, “Well, you should, because there’s a hot girl outside of the shop next door and she looks like she needs help.”</p><p>Or: Clint is a florist, and Steve is his best friend and delivery driver. After months of sitting empty, the store next door is bought by Natasha, who is opening a tattoo parlor with her best friend Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr post: "I passed a flower shop next to a tattoo shop and at first I laughed because I thought it was ironic and then i freaked because IMAGINE YOUR OTP IN A FLORIST/TATTOO ARTIST AU"
> 
> Thanks to santiagoinbflat, the absolute best beta and friend!
> 
> UPDATE: it is so beyond cool to me that people actually like the stuff I write, and want to make stuff in response to that! You should definitely check out the awesome work of [lalaith_paola](http://pityen81.tumblr.com/post/141596357220/here-its-a-fanart-i-made-for-the-lovely-story) and [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/post/118652342030/tattoo-artist-florist-au-i-read-a-really)! Thank you so much to everyone who has left feedback since this has been posted. It makes me so happy to write stories that people enjoy :)

Clint heard the vespa putter up the alley behind the shop. From the way it sounded, it was going to need a new muffler soon -- that’s what he got for hiring a delivery boy that was 240 pounds of pure muscle and sticking him on a glorified scooter.

A minute later, Steve came down the back hall, pushing his thick blond hair out of his eyes as he did so. Steve was taller, stronger, bigger, nicer, and better than Clint in pretty much every single way. Clint had no idea why they were friends, but they’d hit it off in college during a dry, confusing art history class, and somehow they’d never drifted apart. Steve had gotten his art degree with the dream of becoming a comic book artist, but had become a graphic designer to pay the bills. He became disillusioned after designing one too many business cards for dogs, and quit to reignite his comic book dream; in the meantime, he delivered for Clint to make ends meet.

“Have you looked out the window at all today?” Steve teased as he drew level with Clint at his workstation. Clint shook his head. He’d been in early, working since 8 am on a special order, even though they didn’t technically open until 10. He washed his hands as Steve bossily continued, “Well, you should, because there’s a hot girl outside of the shop next door and she looks like she needs help.”

Clint banged his head on the cabinet above the sink and ignored Steve’s subsequent smirk. He stomped to the front of the shop and peeked through the plants that lined the picture window.

There was, in fact, a woman standing on the sidewalk in front of the storefront next to Clint’s, which had been sitting empty for about six months. She wasn’t that tall, maybe five and a half feet, and had a halo of red hair like a flame obscuring her face. She wore Converse sneakers and tight dark jeans and a black t-shirt and forest green wayfarer sunglasses, and --

“Dude, are you seriously standing here checking out her ass?” Clint jumped, even though Steve didn’t know the meaning of stealth, and had probably been there the whole time.

“No!” Yes, he totally had been. In his defense, though… Nope, he didn’t have any defense, either. _Whatever._ Before Steve could start harassing him for either being a creep or not going out to meet her, Clint had pulled open the front door and strode out.

“Ah, hey, are you lost?” he asked as he took the three steps to the next door. “The Audubon Society moved their office up the block a few months ago.” He waved his hand down the block and immediately felt like an idiot.

The redhead turned and lowered her sunglasses a fraction of an inch down her nose. Her eyes were a startling green, and the look she gave him said that she also thought he was an idiot. “Do I look like someone who enjoys birdwatching?” Her voice was husky and her smirk was sarcastic.

_Stay cool, Barton._ Clint shrugged and pulled on the sleeve his purple t-shirt, trying to look nonchalant. “I don’t know, it takes all types, I guess?” The woman sent him a skeptical look and he shrugged again. He could practically hear Steve sniggering through the window. He abruptly stuck out his hand and said, “Well, anyway, I’m Clint Barton. Do you need any help?”

The woman took his hand in hers. Her hands were slightly calloused, like they were used to working, and her nails were painted blood red. “I’m Natasha Romanoff. I just bought this place.”

Clint cut his eyes to the empty storefront. The brick and glass facade desperately needed to be power washed, and the paint was peeling off the wooden door. Through the windows, he could see that the hardwood floors had not been cleaned before the previous tenants had vacated the premises and that the wallpaper was at least twenty years out of date.

Natasha had seen his gaze slide to the store. “I know, it needs some work,” she sighed. “My business partner and I have a lot of work to do if we want to open in a month. Do you work there?” She pointed to Clint’s shop. He hoped that Steve wasn’t standing like an obvious dolt in the middle of the window.

“Yeah! Um, that is, I own it.” Clint puffed his chest up a little. He was proud of his fledgling store, only having been in business for about a year.

“You are the owner of Hawkeye Flowers?” Natasha was clearly aiming for polite interest, but Clint heard the same incredulity that literally everyone else expressed. He could practically see his stock falling in her eyes.

Well, so what? He liked flowers, and he liked making nice things, and he liked making people happy. A flat tone appeared in his voice as he responded, “Yeah, crazy, right? Nice to meet you, Natasha.” He turned on his heel and started to walk the three steps back to his door.

Her hand landed on his arm. “No, wait.” _That’s unusual,_ Clint thought as he paused. The usual was for people to ask, “wait, so you seriously sell _flowers_ for a living?” and then, when he’d confirm this fact, they’d ask about his sexuality, or ask about what career he’d failed out of, or ask what he’d do after this, as obviously it could only be a temporary position. At that point he’d politely leave as soon as possible, go home and drink just a bit too much, and then call Steve (if he wasn’t already there) to complain that the world was full of assholes.

“Sorry.” Clint turned around, and Natasha was right there, sunglasses perched on her head so that he could see the apology in her eyes. “I get shit like that all the time, so I should know better than to be an asshole.” She gave him a small smile, a smile that clearly said _I fucked up and I’m sorry,_ and he couldn’t stay annoyed.

“If you get shit like that all the time, you must be, what, a construction foreman? Forewoman? Mechanic? Plumber?” He wanted so badly to make a joke about a plumber’s crack. _Clint, no._

Natasha hesitated. “It’s not _that_ bad,” she hedged. Clint raised an eyebrow. “Alright, fine. I’m a tattoo artist,” she said, challenge lining her words.

Clint was nonplussed. “Is that really still a male-dominated field?” he asked. “My friend Steve watches a lot of those tattoo shows and like half the contestants are women.” He shrugged. “Either way, sounds pretty badass to me.”

Natasha pointed at him. “Thank you! Where I’m from, nobody wanted a woman to do their tattoos. ‘Is no good,’” she repeated in a thick Russian accent. “‘Your hands are unsteady because women are weak.’ So I packed up and left.”

Clint rocked back on his heels and whistled. “Where the fuck are you from, Soviet Russia?”

“Pretty much.” She peered up at him, analyzing his face for he didn’t know what. “So, a florist, huh? I bet that means you bring great flowers to all your dates.”

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Clint automatically demurred. _Wait, what?_ “I mean, yes, I definitely do.” _Clinton Francis, you fucking idiot._ Fortunately, Natasha looked amused rather than unimpressed, and he smiled sheepishly. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, and finally Clint said awkwardly, “I was actually in the middle of an arrangement, so... I guess I’ll be seeing you around?” _You sound like a fifteen year old boy._ He cleared his throat. “Come by if you need any help or, um, something else.”

“Flowers, perhaps?” Natasha was smiling, so he smiled, too.

“Yeah, maybe.” _Smooth, Clint._ He gave her a half wave before turning to cross the three step distance to his door. He automatically reached up to catch the bell that tried to jingle as the door closed, and made sure to cross to the back of the store, where he was not visible from the street, before doing his victory dance.

Steve propped himself in the doorway, watching Clint’s wiggle for thirty seconds before asking, “So I guess she’s okay, then?”

Clint continued to dance; Steve had seen this many, many times over their long friendship. “She is a tattoo artist, and unbelievably hot, and asked me if I brought nice flowers to dates.”

Steve’s smirk held no real judgement. “Woah, ring the bells, sounds like a wedding is coming up.”

“Shut up. Can we talk about something else?” Clint ran a hand through his sandy hair. Victory dance completed, he walked back out onto the shop floor to resume working. Steve trailed along after him.

“Yeah. Can I paint the vespa? I hate purple.” Clint glared, and Steve started to argue. They bickered about the paint, then whether Clint should replace the vespa with a motorcycle, until finally a customer came in and Clint could send Steve on a delivery and daydream about Natasha in peace.


	2. Chapter 2

It was two weeks before Natasha saw Clint again.

She and Bucky had been working hard to bring their new location out of the dust, and she hadn't had much time for socializing. She was pouring the majority of her life savings into this venture, and if it didn't work out -- well, she didn't want to think about that. The less she thought about failure, the better.

Bucky came swinging through the front door, a white pastry bag clutched in his hand. “Someone requested an overly sweet breakfast pastry?” Natasha turned away from the wallpaper she was stripping and grinned up at him.

Bucky was the oldest and best friend she had. They’d found each other in the wrong crowd, him the tattoo artist that the local crime syndicate had favored, and her hanging off the arm of Ivan, the repulsive yet powerful syndicate leader. She and Bucky had fallen for each other almost immediately, naively blind to the consequences of crossing someone as vicious as Ivan. They’d run desperately, only to discover that they weren't in love with each other, but with the idea of being free of the syndicate. Ivan had continued to pursue and terrorize them both for about a decade, during which Natasha had become hardened, private, and fairly competent at throwing knives.

But now Ivan had finally gotten himself caught in a murder charge that would stick, and Bucky didn't have to hide the distinctive full-sleeve tattoo on his left arm, and Natasha could once again wear her hair as bright and red as she had used to.

“That would be me, and I will thank you for not judging my food preferences, Mister Ketchup On Everything.” She snatched the bag out of his hand and eagerly reached for the bear claw inside. She ate quickly as she listened to Bucky talk about the bakery down the street, owned by, as he described him, “a literal god come to life.” Natasha arched an eyebrow.

Bucky crossed his arms defensively, muscles rippling under the robotic-styled tattoo on his left arm. “His name is seriously Thor, and he’s from Sweden or Norway, you know, one of those icy northern places where everyone is freakishly tall and happy. Plus, as I’m sure you’re noticing, everything he makes is delicious.”

Natasha wiped her hands and threw the pastry bag into the trash in a perfect arc. “Not as delicious as getting all this shitty wallpaper off will be. Stop being a bum and come help me reach the top.” Bucky grumbled and made some unkind remarks about short people that she chose to ignore, but joined her at the wall. Soon the floor was littered with long strips of wallpaper and only the glue-streaked plaster remained. 

“This is… much uglier,” Bucky commented. Natasha’s head fell back in frustration. 

“Fuuuuck.” More work was absolutely not what she needed. They had two weeks left on the timetable she’d planned, and unless they found someone who was willing to work for tattoos, they were not going to be on schedule. She stomped around the shop with Bucky, picking up wallpaper shreds and trying to come up with options that didn't involve bank robbery.

“We could ask that guy next door,” Bucky quietly suggested as Natasha, having carried all the wallpaper to the trash, stared dejectedly at a glue streak. “Maybe he knows a cheap contractor who can help us out.” Natasha swung a skeptical look in his direction, and he hastily continued, “I mean, they haven’t been open that long, and he certainly doesn't look like he’s made of money. He had to get help somewhere.”

This was a fair point, and even if Clint Barton had maybe been the strangest guy she’d met since moving to the city, beggars just couldn't be choosers. There wasn't a lot that she wouldn't do to get this tattoo parlor off the ground, so she headed for the door, dragging Bucky after her so as to avoid his “I told you so” smirk. It was only three steps across the alley to the next door, and she had pushed the door open before Bucky could complain about being forced to tag along.

A bell jangled loudly as the door closed, but there was nobody at the counter to prevent them from studying the array of flowers to choose from. Refrigerated cases lined the wall behind the cashiering station, and a hum of electricity in the air suggested that there were more fridges in the back room. Every other wall was crammed with flowers and greenery of every shade, size, and color, and there were a few shelves and display stands that held vases, stuffed animals, and other delivery vessels. Bamboo, ferns, and taller plants popped up around the shop’s floor, drawing her eyes five different ways at once. It was a bright, vibrant jungle, and Natasha both loved it and didn't understand how awkward Clint Barton had created such a paradise.

Her perusal was interrupted by the appearance of the extremely fit blond man she’d seen on the vespa the day she’d met Clint. Standing and vespa-less, he towered over her and even had a few inches on Bucky, who was at least half a foot taller than she. “Hi, I’m Steve Rogers. You must be Natasha from next door.” His voice was warm and friendly, and between that and his broad-shouldered, all-American hotness, she figured she should have been swooning all over his feet. Why wasn't she?

“Are you sure _this_ isn't the god come to life?” she murmured to Bucky, before extending her hand to Steve and saying, “That’s me, Natasha Romanoff, and this is my partner, James Barnes.” She nodded to Bucky, who was already grinning stupidly at Steve. They shook hands and introduced themselves (“Please, call me Bucky,” with a still dumb smile), and Natasha realized that the reason she wasn't falling all over Steve was because he’d been staring at Bucky the way she stared at fresh donuts. _Well, okay then._ She glanced at Bucky, saw that this situation was rapidly going to run off the rails, and cleared her throat.

“Is Clint here? We’re looking for some help.” Steve credibly detached his eyes from Bucky without much lingering and focused back on Natasha.

“He should be back from lunch any minute now. What kind of help do you need?” Steve leaned on the counter with crossed arms, and his grey shirt pulled tight across his biceps. _There is more beef here than a fucking McDonald’s._ Natasha left Bucky to ogle Steve’s physique as she explained the hideous plaster walls and her very strict timetable.

“I’d do it myself, but I just don’t think I’ll have enough time, so I figured Clint might have had an inexpensive contractor to do his.” She waved to the exposed brick walls. Exposed brick was a nice look for a tattoo place, rough but also, in a way, refined. Just like her.

Steve smiled. “Oh, yeah, the most inexpensive contractor around: me.” Bucky made a strangled noise and Natasha shot him a get-it-together glare. “Clint and I did some home repair work in college, so when he decided to open this place up, we did most of the renovations and repairs ourselves. We could take care of that for you, no problem.” _Did he just wink at Bucky?_

“We could take care of what, no problem?” Clint walked through the back room door, cup of coffee in one hand and half-eaten sandwich in the other. Natasha smiled at him gratefully, glad to have a buffer in the hormone explosion that was happening between Bucky and Steve. Clint nodded and sipped his coffee to try to hide his blush.

Steve dragged his eyes away from Bucky, again. “They’ve got a plaster wall that needs to be chipped down by… tomorrow night?” Natasha nodded, and Steve repeated, “tomorrow night. I figure, we did ours, we can help a neighbor out, right?” He smiled serenely at Clint, who did not return the smile, and in fact looked distinctly terrified.

Natasha smirked. She didn’t know why Steve was goading Clint into fixing her walls, but she also didn’t care, as long as it meant she could keep to her schedule. She arranged her face to look as innocent as possible and watched as Clint’s face became a slide show of emotions before finally displaying defeat.

“Yeah, alright, fine,” Clint said after a long draw of coffee. “We’ll come by after we close up tonight, say, 6?”

Natasha would have preferred earlier, but she would take what she could get. She hauled out her megawatt smile, which she happened to know made pretty much anyone feel like they were special. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said, hands clasped damsel-in-distress style. “I’ll order up some pizzas and make sure that we have absolutely everything ready.” She grabbed Bucky’s arm and moved quickly for the door before Clint could change his mind. Bucky waved weakly as the bell jangled over their heads, and was still waving a little once they got back to their door. He pushed his long brown hair out of his face and looked at Natasha with wide blue eyes.

“Did you see-”

“Yep.” 

“And his arms-”

“Uh huh.”

“And that _smile_ -”

Natasha sighed. “Are we going to do this for the rest of the day? Because I need to talk about the budget with the Bucky who isn’t consumed with lust.” She propped her hands on her hips.

“It’s not _lust_ , Natasha, it’s love,” Bucky said with superiority, and Natasha rolled her eyes.

“Not again,” she groaned. “James Buchanan Barnes, you are the most hopeless romantic I’ve ever met.” Bucky was always, _always,_ falling in love, with men, with women, with people who checked boxes somewhere in between; and that was fine, but what Bucky never seemed to grasp was that love was for children, love was for people with clean, bright pasts. It was both his most endearing and most frustrating quality, because always falling in love meant always breaking up, and that meant always eating all of Natasha’s ice cream and making her watch _The Notebook._

“You’re just a cynic,” Bucky sniffed, but he smiled and let Natasha review the budget without (too) many references to Steve until she sent him around the corner to pick up pizza.


	3. Chapter 3

_Here’s the thing,_ Clint began to himself as he stood on a ladder, valiantly attempting not to look down Natasha’s shirt as she stood below him. _I don’t actually know how to do this._ He chipped hesitantly at the wall, and a piece of plaster fell off. Encouraged, he chipped again, and was rewarded with a large plaster chunk falling to the floor, narrowly missing Natasha’s foot. She looked up at him and grinned.

“I guess you’re actually pretty good at that,” she said with surprise. Clint was also surprised.

“Yeah, I did the whole front room of my place,” Clint lied blatantly. Steve had done the majority of the work, because Steve was the only one of them who had actually worked for a builder in college.

Clint had pointed this fact out to Steve as soon as Natasha had dragged Bucky from the flower shop. Steve had waved a lazy hand.

“That doesn’t matter, bro,” Steve had said dismissively. “I just got you a one-way ticket to a date with Natasha.” Clint had rolled his eyes.

“Natasha isn’t going to magically date me just because I fixed a wall. And she’s not a destination. Creepy.” Steve leered harmlessly before explaining how, exactly, one removed plaster from a wall. It was easy, according to Steve, but everything was easy to Steve: academics, carpentry, love. Speaking of which…

“Also, I thought you were done with men,” Clint said after a moment, giving Steve the most accusing glare he could over the basket of marigolds he was arranging. “You told me after you and Sam broke up that you were giving up on men forever. I walk in today and you’re practically sticking your tongue down that guy’s throat.”

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “I was not. And haven’t you ever heard of exaggeration? I say I’m done with lots of things, like _The Bachelor,_ or your dumb face. Plus, Sharon ended things after the second date because she’s moving to DC to take care of her aunt, so now I’m single and--”

“Ready to mingle, yeah, yeah,” Clint had groaned. For all that Steve was flippant about it, breaking up with Sam after three years together had put a huge dent in his ego, and Clint was glad that Steve was putting himself out there again. Clint was a great friend, he modestly believed, but it felt like it had been seventy years since Steve had shown any real interest in anyone, and Clint was going to pull his hair out if Steve came over, moping, and made him watch _Top Gun_ (his favorite movie) again.

So now here he was, making an idiot out of himself in front of Natasha, while Steve and Bucky worked on the opposite wall, flirting up a storm. Clint chipped intently at the wall, then paused, eavesdropping on the conversation across the room until he heard his name and dropped his chisel with a clatter.

Natasha smiled knowingly as he climbed down the ladder to pick it up. “You’re not very subtle,” she murmured as she slapped the chisel back into his palm. “Come on, let’s grab some pizza and give them some privacy.”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” Clint muttered, but he followed her ( _Don’t stare at her ass don’t stare at--does her hair smell like cherries?_ ) into the office at the back of the store, where four pizza boxes were piled on a pristine desk. The whole room, in fact, was spotless, and furnished with sleek white furniture and bright red accents that made Clint feel like he was in an IKEA. Natasha pushed a beer and a paper plate stacked with three slices of pepperoni into his hands and they sat on the only two chairs in the room, balancing their pizza on their knees.

“So, where did you learn how to tattoo?” Clint asked after a long pull of his beer.

Natasha smiled. “Bucky taught me. When we met--” She broke off, a hard look crossing her face for a fleeting second. “He was a tattoo artist that my ex-boyfriend and his friends used to visit. We became friends, I expressed interest, he taught me.” She shrugged as if it was a simple story, but Clint had seen her face darken, and there were some obvious pieces missing. He took a large bite of pizza to stop himself from asking where the ex-boyfriend was, or how recently they’d broken up, or if she was available, then? _Don’t be so obvious. God._

“So, do you, um, have a lot of tattoos, then?” Clint asked. He tried not to be obvious as he gave her a once-over for visible artwork on her skin, but he was fairly certain she could tell. Women always could. A sultry smile spread across her face.

“None that you’d be seeing any time soon,” she said, her voice lower and more seductive than usual, and Clint felt his ears turning red. He shoved more pizza in his mouth, and Natasha laughed. “I’m joking,” she said in her normal voice, before pushing the hair behind her right ear aside and revealing a very small hourglass design, outlined in black with red grains of sand trickling down, tucked into the curve of her ear. Clint leaned closer and smelled cherries and almonds.

“Sometimes I think that I need a little more time,” she explained, leaning back and rearranging her hair. “You know, not enough hours in the day.” She rubbed her thumb over the ink with familiarity. “I just need to remember that I have all the time I need to accomplish whatever I set my mind to.”

Determination fired her eyes into emerald sparks, and she was utterly compelling in her passion, and Clint, like the smooth guy that he was, choked spectacularly on his beer. Natasha laughed and laughed while Clint coughed.

“Anyway,” she said finally, once he had finished hacking, “what’s your story? Have you always been into flowers?” Clint appreciated that she had avoided all the loaded words that made his blood boil. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his beer as he outlined the path his life had taken to get him.

“Majored in biology. Got recruited right out of college to join the Army. I did, what, three tours?” He paused, expecting Natasha to ask, like everyone else, what he had done while in the Army; but she once again surprised him. In her silence, he shocked himself by revealing, “I was a sniper. Usually I don’t tell people that, but it seems like you can handle it.” He quirked his mouth in a not-smile, watching Natasha’s eyes for retreat; most people retreated when they met snipers. She didn’t seem to be planning to run, so he sighed. “Did that for a while, for… too long. Started to feel like there was nothing in life but destruction, so I left. Came home, got married, sucked at it, got divorced. Worked some odd jobs to build up cash, then decided to be a creator instead-- instead of a killer.”

Natasha was silently considering him, and Clint could hear Steve and Bucky murmuring to each other down the hall. The cat-shaped clock on the wall ticked. He felt like a raw nerve. _Why did you do that, Clint?_ He never told dates about being a sniper until at least the fifth date (which usually didn’t happen). Even though this wasn’t a date, it was still absolutely idiotic to dump out a secret like that and expecting anything other than horror. _Why did you do that, Clint?_ As if his job history wasn’t bad enough, he’d mentioned that he was divorced, who the fuck knew why. Now that Natasha knew he was a former professional killer with an ex-wife, she was going to politely show him the door and they would become distantly cordial neighbors. _Why the fuck did you do that, Clint?_

More silence. Clint scraped his chair back, a deafening sound in the void, and stood to leave.

“Bucky and I have been on the run from a Russian mobster for the past ten years.”

Clint immediately sat back down. “What?”

Natasha smirked, but her eyes were shadowed. “I’m pretty sure you heard me.” She matter-of-factly told Clint about the Russian crime syndicate she and Bucky had fled, describing the leader, Ivan, and his relentless chase in such detail that Clint wanted to take a crack at the guy himself.

“But now he’s in jail,” Natasha finished confidently, wiping the last of the pizza grease from her hands. “Stabbing a guy in broad daylight can be difficult to cover up, you know. If he gets out, though, I know how to take care of myself now.” Her smile was small, lethal, and vengeful, and Clint had seen smiles like that through the lens of his sniper rifle. He knew he should be scared, should be running from someone who knew how to smile like that; instead he felt himself being drawn in by her persistence, her passion for survival, and those eyes…

Clint stood, again, before he started to stare like a lovesick teenager. “Well, should you ever need help on that front,” he began to offer as he crumpled his paper plate.

Natasha shook her head. “You’re out, and you should be.” She tossed her beer bottle into the trash with impeccable aim. “But… thanks. I’m glad I’ve met someone else in this city with a crooked past.” She offered him a small, unusually sincere smile for a moment before brushing past him.

“Come on,” she said, the laughter back in her voice. “Let’s catch Steve and Bucky making out.” She took off down the hall and Clint, even though he absolutely did not want to catch Steve and Bucky doing anything, had no choice but to follow.


	4. Chapter 4

It was 1:05 pm on opening day, and they hadn’t had any customers.

“Nobody is coming in,” Natasha moaned for the twentieth time since they’d opened at 11 am. “We’re going to go out of business on the first day.” She pushed her wheeled stool away from the window and propelled herself to Bucky, who sat at the front desk sketching designs.

“People are going to come in,” Bucky said without lifting his head, as he had the previous nineteen time Natasha had complained. She watched, chin on the desk like a small child, as he added stars and ribbon flourishes to a proud eagle. Bucky was left-handed, and she loved to watch his arm as he drew. The sleeve tattoo had taken him years to complete and required regular touch-ups, but it was a masterpiece. She loved the details put into the circuitry, the shading of the panels that appeared to connected, and the bright red star on his deltoid for his Russian origins; but what she loved best was to see it in motion, muscles rippling under the ink in perfect accord.

Five minutes ticked by. “Nat. Stop staring at my arm.” By now Bucky was used to her passive admiration. “Go get a soda or something.” He’d made this suggestion four times so far, and each time she had. Now she was full of caffeine.

“I’m going to go buy an orchid,” she announced, popping off her stool. “Wanna come and see Steve?” Bucky didn’t move or even look up. _Fine._ Natasha swept out the door and paused to smile at the decal attached to the window just last night, the veritable cherry on top. Bucky’s shop back in Russia all those years ago had been called “The Winter Soldier,” but after a decade on the run, he’d refused to unearth the name again. Instead, “Black Widow Tattoos” was spelled out in a red blocky faux-Russian font. A black spider with the telltale red hourglass stamp on its back hung in the “O” of “Widow.” Her and Bucky’s names were printed in much smaller letters below.

Clint was trimming the thorns off red roses when she entered the florist shop, his hands covered with worn work gloves. He looked up and grinned when he heard the bell ring. “Well, if it isn’t the successful business owner.” Natasha grinned back and boosted herself onto the counter next to the roses, causing Clint to emit a small yelp. “Hey, trying to work here.”

“Nobody has come in yet,” Natasha groaned, shifting to give Clint a little more space to work. “Bucky’s designing something for Steve and won’t talk to me. I’ve had four cokes in two hours and I feel like I’m going to detonate.” Clint continued working as she talked, and she noted as she watched the muscles in his arms move that he, too, was left-handed. What was it about left-handed men that made them so inherently attractive?

_Not_ that she was attracted to him.

“So you came here to bother me instead?” Clint smirked, trimmed the last rose of its thorns, and deftly swept the bunch of flowers into a waiting vase.

Natasha liked to watch him work. In the past two weeks, since the night he’d helped her with the plaster, she’d come over in between receiving ink shipments and polishing mirrors, or whenever Steve came by to flirt outrageously with Bucky. Clint’s hands were always gentle and steady as he moved his delicate products; a remnant, she supposed, of being a sniper. Sometimes he let Natasha help, teaching her the Latin names of the flowers, or what they meant in the secret language of bouquets. Although she now considered them to be friends, they never directly talked about that night; he’d ask where she’d lived over the past decade, she’d prod at the languages he’d picked up while overseas, always coming at things from the side.

“Not to _bother_ you,” Natasha said, drawing the word out as she picked through the collection of ribbons on the counter next to her. “To hang out with you. And also, to buy an orchid for the shop.” She held out a white satin ribbon for him to tie around the vase, and ignored the jumpy feeling she got when his fingers brushed hers as he took it. He was quiet as he tied a flawless bow, then peered up at her.

“Orchid?” Clint shook his head slowly, evidently thinking. “No. _You_ are an orchid, no doubt about it; but for the shop…” He trailed off and disappeared into the back.

Natasha didn’t know how to interpret that. _You are an orchid, no doubt about it._ She pulled out her phone and quickly searched for the characteristics of orchids. “Hardy,” her phone listed back to her. “Long lasting. Can survive without water. Beautiful. Strong.”

_Oh._

She both wanted to find out what orchids stood for in the language of flowers, and didn’t. Not because, you know, that would _mean_ something about their relationship, or anything. Just in case they stood for “you annoy me,” or “let’s not stay friends,” and that was what he had really meant.

She was locked in a war with herself when the bell above the door jingled and a customer entered. He had maybe an inch or two on Natasha, though some of that height certainly derived from his upslicked hair. He had bright, impatient brown eyes and a precise goatee with sharp corners, wore an expensive suit with a band t-shirt and casual sneakers, and he looked like a complete douche.

“You’re not Clint.” It sounded like an accusation. Definitely a douche. “Girlfriend?”

Natasha could feel herself reacting too quickly. “No! No,” she said in a calmer voice. “I own the new tattoo shop next door. Natasha Romanoff.” She held a hand out and he shook it quickly, efficiently.

“Tony Stark,” he said, with a smug smile that said _you should know who I am._ She did, in fact, know that he was the popular CEO of the high-tech clean energy company that occupied an entire block downtown, but she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.

“These for you?” she asked instead of fawning, as he clearly expected her to. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a guy who likes roses. Daisies, though…” She trailed off with a raised eyebrow.

Tony’s face fell. “Ha. They’re for my girlfriend, who is pissed at me, again.” Natasha suspected that said fact was entirely his fault, but Clint came barreling out of the back with a rounded bowl of freshly cut flowers before she could answer.

“Now _these_ are perfect for--” He stopped short and came close to dropping the flowers as he noticed Tony standing at the counter. “Oh. Hey, Tony. Thought you’d be a few more minutes.”

Tony’s eyes flicked from Clint, who was still clutching the bowl awkwardly, to Natasha, who was trying not to smile. “Uh huh.”

Clint flushed a pink color that was really quite adorable, and shoved the bowl of flowers into Natasha’s hands. “Here,” he blurted, stumbling over his words as he rushed to point out the irises, dahlias, calla lilies, and other dark flowers. It was a spiky arrangement, but still managed to come together gently. She met his friendly blue eyes and there was more understanding there than she knew what to do with. There was a warm feeling knocking around her chest that had nothing to do with her previous energy and everything to do with the way Clint was looking at her like he was a sunflower and she was the sun.

“How much do I owe you?” she stammered out. Clint only shrugged.

“On the house. An opening day gift.” It was too much, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he just shook his head firmly. “A gift. Take it.”

Natasha held his gaze for a moment. “Thank you.” She shot a dirty look to Tony, who was watching the short conversation with rapt attention, then carefully cradled her bowl of flowers as she walked the few steps back to her door.

“Nice flowers,” Bucky commented with a knowing smirk as she settled them on the front desk. She shushed him, and settled back onto her stool to watch him draw. Her mind wandered from the safe territory of Bucky’s musculature to the much more dangerous territory of Clint’s, making her even more glad when, at 2:17, someone finally, _finally_ walked in for a tattoo.


	5. Chapter 5

At 6 that night, Clint and Steve locked up and crossed the alley to the tattoo shop. Steve headed straight for the back room, evidently familiar with Bucky’s schedule, but Clint hovered by the front desk and watched Natasha work. Her back was to the door as she bent over a customer, a timid looking man with large glasses who was getting some sort of green monster applied to his bicep. In the mirror, her brows were knit together in concentration, but periodically she would ask a question, flash a smile in response. Her hands were light and steady as she worked, just as they were when she held vases or helped him situate stems.

Clint looked down, spotted the flowers on the desk, and had to work to contain his smile. He’d made a fool of himself in front of Tony, who had offered him some terrible romantic advice as soon as Natasha had run out, but she clearly liked the flowers, so…

 _So, nothing,_ he chided himself. He had spent a full month of time with Natasha, and she’d never so much as batted her eyelashes at him. They were friends, and that was all there was going to be, and he needed to get over it.

Which would be easier to achieve if she wasn’t laughing with that timid little guy, eyes sparkling like dewy grass. _“Dewy grass”? You’re pathetic._ The sound of her laugh was making his stomach flip around, so he grabbed a random magazine from a basket and settled into a squashy armchair to wait. The air was filled with the buzz of the tattoo gun, Natasha’s quiet conversation, and a Queen album spinning on low volume.

“You’re all done, Bruce,” Natasha said, taping down a bandage before spinning in her chair. "Come on over to the desk and--oh, Clint, hi." Clint lowered his magazine and she was standing right there, hair swirling around her ears like the setting sun, like a punch in the gut. She gave him a confused smile when he didn’t quite answer, then moved behind the desk to give the green monster guy care instructions and then a receipt.

By the time she had ushered the guy out the door and flipped the sign to read CLOSED, Clint had got his emotions in check. “Successful first day?” he asked brightly as she slumped into the chair opposite him, kicking her sneakered feet onto the coffee table.

“Yeah, actually,” she said with a small smile that failed to disguise how excited she was. “First guy around 2 and they kept coming. I’m stunned that we even got one person on the first day, let alone three.” She fidgeted with pride. Her eyes were shining, and Clint felt like such a dick for wanting to kiss her, for wanting to make this moment about the two of them instead of just her.

Clint cleared his throat. “Well, Steve and I came by because we thought we should take you two to dinner. A neighborly first day celebration. You missed him go by, he went to the back room to find Bucky.” He tried to push out all the non-neighborly things he began to think when Natasha glanced over her shoulder towards the back rooms, exposing a corner of her hourglass tattoo as her neck stretched.

“Bucky was painting the storage room,” she said innocently. “Shirtless, last I checked. So I’m pretty sure they’re not going to come to dinner. Unless you want to go and ask…?” Her teeth flashed in a wicked, incendiary grin.

 _Shit, I can’t do this alone,_ Clint thought, panic crawling through his veins. _Then it’s A Date._ But he’d rather go on a date of one-sided attraction then go into the storage room and walk right into someone’s naked ass. He’d seen enough of Steve’s when they roomed together in college, thank you. Plus, if he could get through this, sit down and eat and have a conversation without tripping over his tongue or blurting out that he loved the way she smelled, then the worst would be over, and he could be the good friend she needed.

“I’ll go grab my jacket,” Natasha said when he shook his head no. She ran into the back office, shouted “Use protection!” in the direction of the storage room, then ran back up, jacket in hand. “Let’s go.” She wove her arm through his ( _as friends often do,_ he shouted to himself) as they walked a few blocks to a tiny Italian place that had, Clint promised, the best tiramisu in the city.

The problem, Clint quickly realized, was that when you showed up to a tiny Italian place that was mostly comprised of candlelit corners, with a woman on your arm who could outshine the stars, the people who worked there assumed you were actually on a date. They were led to a secluded table in the back, draped in curtains and lit with tea candles that made Natasha glow like a goddamn sunrise. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the waiter immediately appeared and offered them a bottle of champagne, which Natasha eagerly accepted before Clint could say no.

“To fresh starts,” Clint said, raising his glass to her. He hated that he loved the way the candle light made her hair look like an inferno. He hated that he was using the word “love” at all, because they’d only known each other a month, and he was not usually a crazy person.

“To new friends,” Natasha replied, clinking her glass against his with a wide smile, the biggest he’d ever seen on her. She looked happy, effervescently so, and Clint’s heart squeezed so hard he could barely take a drink. He hoped the waiter would come back soon so that he could distract himself with food.

But the waiter did not come back, apparently believing that appetizers weren’t to be ordered until an entire bottle of champagne had been consumed. By the time they got to order, Clint’s tongue was too loose, and he had to work every other sentence to prevent “I am so in love with you” from popping out of his mouth. Natasha seemed not to notice, and Clint was grateful that she filled his conversational lapses with stories about wild tattoos she’d done in the past, tales of her adjustment to life in the city, snapshots of her friendship with Bucky.

“This is the happiest he’s been in years,” she confided as she delicately wrapped fettucini around her fork. “He’s always in love, always thinking he’s found The One; but he’s so serious so fast, and always gets dumped.” She shook her head. “Hopefully Steve sticks around for a while, because I am just so tired of watching _The Notebook._ ”

“Steve makes me watch _Top Gun_ ,” Clint replied in between bites of lasagna. “Or at least, he did when he and his last serious boyfriend broke up.”

“At least you get to watch something with action,” Natasha grumbled, stabbing her fork in his direction. “‘If you’re a bird, I’m a bird?’ What the fuck is that?”

Clint laughed and imagined Natasha aggressively frowning at the television while Bucky sobbed on the other side of the couch. “For what it’s worth, I agree,” he said over the newly arrived tiramisu, which was still the best in the city. “And Steve’s a long haul kind of guy. He and Sam, his last major relationship, they were together for three years. I thought they were going to get married, but the way he looks at Bucky just blows that out of the water.” He tried to hide is wistful expression by draining his champagne glass, but he set it down and found Natasha’s face matched his.

He watched the flames flicker in her eyes as she said, staring into the distance, in a dreamy far-off voice, “I’d like someone to look at me like that.” He’d blame it on the champagne forever, the way he was too slow to change his expression before she came back to herself, unable to reel in the longing before she saw it stamped all over his face.

 _You have officially fucked up,_ Clint told himself as she let out a soft, involuntary, “oh,” and stared into her water glass. He cleared his throat and started talking about sports teams, he didn’t know which ones, until finally dessert was over. Despite the tension that floated in the air, Clint still insisted on paying, because this dinner was for her hard work and perseverance; she had climbed out of her hell and deserved to be treated.

They walked back to the alley between their shops with less conversation, with their hands in their jacket pockets. They had parked next to each other in the tiny parking lot, as had somehow become habit, and they stood awkwardly apart as they fumbled for their keys.

“I’m sorry,” Clint mumbled as his hand found the fob for his Toyota. “I hope you still had a good first day of business, anyway.” He didn’t want to look at her, because she’d become his friend, and he hated that they were going back to square one, awkward neighbors. But he did look, maybe because he was a glutton for punishment, maybe because he had a tiny glimmer of hope.

The parking lot was not well lit, and only a small stripe of light fell across her eyes in the darkness. “I did,” she responded, blinking slowly in the light. _Well, at least you didn’t totally ruin it._ Clint nodded and turned to unlock his car.

“Clint?”

He turned and she was there, eyes blazing in the dark as she reached for him, hesitant. He closed the gap, because this was it, _this was it_ , and one hand tangled in her hair as he kissed her. His other hand grasped her waist, felt her warmth through her t-shirt, and he tugged her closer, trying to press into her lips everything he couldn’t let himself say. Her hands dug into his shoulders, then crashed into his hair; her mouth opened under his and he was drowning in her, he was never going to make it back to shore. Natasha’s hesitance had melted, and she made a little jump to wrap her legs around his waist. Clint wrapped his arms around her and backed her into her car, and--

The burglar alarm erupted into the night, and Natasha tipped her head down in annoyance. “Fuck,” she said breathlessly, still in his arms, still cradling his face in her hands, and all Clint’s frazzled brain could think to do was mumble, “you smell so good” into her hair. Natasha let out a huge, obnoxious laugh over the car alarm that was still honking, and Clint felt like his face was going to crack from smiling.

“I thought you hated _The Notebook_ ,” came a shout from her back step, and they both peered around to find Steve and Bucky, both shirtless and speckled with paint, leaning against the doorframe in a pool of light like a fucking Abercrombie ad. It was Bucky who had yelled, and Natasha looked down, seemed to recognize the iconic way Clint was holding her, and held her forehead against his.

“I am never going to live this down,” she whispered, lips brushing his; but then she raised her head and shouted back, “go back to the storage room, you creeps!” She slid her feet down to the ground as Steve and Bucky retreated, heckling. Natasha stabbed a hand into her pocket for her car keys and clicked the alarm button until the lot was again silent. She pulled his arms around her waist, drawing him close, and he stood and rested his cheek on her hair for a long moment.

“We should probably go,” Clint said finally, regret weighing down his words. He didn’t want to let go, but it was likely that Steve and Bucky would leave soon, and he wasn’t ready to give in to Steve’s gossiping ways.

“We should,” she agreed, making no movement to do so. “Not like we won’t see each other tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Clint lamely agreed; and then tentatively, into her hair: “or you could come have a cup of coffee at my place?”

Natasha looked up with a sly grin, eyes sparkling. “Oh yeah, Barton?”

Clint knew that extending this encounter only furthered his chances of being the guy that said “I love you” on the first date. But the moonlight was beautiful, and Natasha more so; so he kissed her and said, “oh, _yeah_ ,” and took her home for the best cup of coffee in his life.


End file.
